William Rabkin - The Call of the Mild

And Henry was ready. Sticks poised, waiting to slam down on the shining-white drum heads. He’d practiced the solo in his head for months, and now it was almost time.

He raised the drumsticks high over his head. He could feel the rhythm rising in his blood. The moment was now.

And then there was silence.

The synthesizer stopped just before it reached its crescendo. The musicians all looked up, confused, like shuttle astronauts whose liftoff had been aborted without warning.

Henry glanced over at the side of the stage. At the skinny young man who was bending over the synthesizer. Please, no, he prayed, although he knew this one was never going to come true. Please don’t let it be him.

Shawn flipped one last switch and turned to face the band.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Were you guys listening to that?”

The cabins at the Rock and Roll Fantasy Camp were small and Spartan; the campers’ fees went to paying the guest instructors, or at least their coke dealers, therapists, and exwives, and not for luxurious accommodation. This didn’t bother Henry when he checked in. The cabin was plenty big enough for one.

But now it held Henry, Shawn, and Gus, along with Henry’s fury and his embarrassment, and it was feeling mighty cramped. Shawn’s throat was too close to Henry’s hands to be certain they wouldn’t attempt revenge for their thwarted celebration. Henry almost regretted ripping the sleeves out of that sweatshirt; right now unlimited freedom for his arms seemed to be an invitation to filicide.

Fortunately Shawn had made that difficult by spreading himself over Henry’s single bed. Gus was still an available target, having wedged himself into a corner between a dresser and the cabin’s sole window, but there was no more point in blaming Gus than there had been at any point in his lifelong friendship with Shawn. Gus was a passenger.

“I’m going to ask you one more time,” Henry said, trying to keep his voice as calm as possible. “What exactly are you doing here?”

“I’ve decided I haven’t embarrassed myself and my family enough in life, and thought this was a great way to look like a total tool,” Shawn said. “Oh, no, wait. That’s you.”

Henry’s hands clenched into fists. With great mental effort, he forced them to relax. “Have you considered I might be here to investigate a case for a friend?”

“I’m sure you are,” Shawn said. “The case of the missing youth. Or is it the mystery of the lost hair?”

“I realize this is terribly unpleasant for you,” Henry said. “If only there was some way you could have avoided it. You know, like by staying away.”

“How could I, when you were practically blasting out press releases across the country?”

“I didn’t tell anyone about this,” Henry said.

“You told MasterCard,” Shawn said.

“What did you do?” Henry said, his anger rising even further. “Hack into my credit card account?”

“Shawn wanted me to,” Gus said. “But I told him no. There are layers of security, traps for hackers who try to break in. I heard of one guy in Michigan who thought he could get into-” He saw the look on Henry’s face and stopped himself. “Besides, I said. That would be wrong.”

“Not to mention illegal,” Shawn said. “So we broke into your house and found your last bill. You really do need to use that shredder.”

“I can think of a use for it right now,” Henry said.

“Anyway,” Shawn said, “we’ve come here to save you money and embarrassment.”

“That will be a first,” Henry said.

“Technically it will be two firsts,” Gus said.

“Which is what makes this such an exciting opportunity for you,” Shawn said. “We’re here to give you a chance to relive your glory days. And I mean your real glory days, not the song. Which is not only the worst song on Born in the USA, but the worst song Springsteen ever wrote, and possibly the worst song ever written by anyone in the world besides Diane Warren-”

“Hey,” Gus interrupted, “I warned you about ragging on ‘Unbreak My Heart.’ ”

Shawn ignored him. “-and which I’m sure the Hairless Four, or whatever your band calls itself, is going to do next.”

“The only glory days I’m thinking about are those wonderful ones when I was childless,” Henry said.

“I mean the days when you were important,” Shawn said.

“When you still had a purpose in life and didn’t have to dress up like Jennifer Beals in Flashdance just to make it through another dismal day. I’m offering you a case.”

Henry stared at his son. For all his questionable tactics, Shawn was smart. He knew how to get people to do what he wanted. And if Henry could generally see through him, at least he usually sounded like he was offering him something he’d genuinely desire. This time, not so much.

“You want to hire me to work for Psych?” Henry said. “Do you think I’m starving in a gutter?”

“If you were, you’d probably be dressed better,” Shawn said, then hurried to the meat of his offer before Henry could respond. “The Santa Barbara Police Department wants you back.”

Henry was happy being retired. Henry was happy not having to deal with the bureaucracy, and the lowlifes, and the long hours behind a desk, and the longer hours out in the field. Henry didn’t want to go back to work.

At least that’s what he told himself. But there was a part of him, deep down, maybe even deeper down than the place where all those songs were hiding all those years, that was jumping for joy at the offer. There was just one small problem.

“And they sent you because all their phones are broken and they’ve forgotten how to drive?” Henry said.

“It’s not really an official SBPD case,” Shawn said. “Well, it is, but the Isla Vista Foot Patrol doesn’t agree, and they’re ready to rumble to fight for their turf.”

Now Henry was completely lost. Shawn saw the confusion on his face and launched into an explanation that, after many false starts and corrections from Gus, finally approximated what had happened over the previous day.

“So you volunteered me to help you out on this one,” Henry said. “Without asking.”

“I’m asking now,” Shawn said.

“No, you’re not,” Henry said. “You’re doing everything but asking. You’re trying to trick me into doing what you want instead of honestly asking for my help.”

“Would that help?” Shawn asked.

“What?”

“Honesty,” Shawn said. “Sincerity. Heart.”

“I don’t know,” Henry said. “Since you’ve never actually tried anything that radical before, it’s hard to say what would happen if you did. But I can guarantee that nothing else is going to work.”

Shawn nodded thoughtfully as he took this in. Then he turned away from Henry and faced the wall. When he turned back, the trademark smirk was gone from his face. He stared at his father with deep, grave eyes.

“Ellen Svaco came to Psych for help,” Shawn said. “I didn’t realize the kind of trouble she was in. If I had, she might still be alive. I can’t do anything about that, but at least I can help catch her killer.”

Henry thought about this. “I’ll help,” he said. “On one condition.”

“I’m not going to sit in for you on the great rock and roll swindle,” Shawn said. “But I will troll the retirement homes for your replacement if that will make you feel better about breaking up the band.”

“It’s not that,” Henry said, “and it’s not negotiable.”

“Everything’s negotiable,” Shawn said.

“Not this,” Henry said. “If I’m on this case, you’re off it.”